


Jamien & Darklown

by daisyisawriter91



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Established Relationship, Fluff, Heartbreak, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Public Humiliation, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyisawriter91/pseuds/daisyisawriter91
Summary: One shots from the life and times of James Shefford and Mayor Damien





	1. Falling

James was never a graceful sort of man. In fact, he was the opposite of what you could call graceful. He tripped over nothing frequently. High surfaces were a nightmare, not because he was scared of heights. On the contrary, he wasn’t scared enough of heights.  
But he knew, most falls he took, he had someone there to catch him. Damien often kept a mental note of what possibly dangerous thing could be happening to James. He’d saved James more than once.  
James stood at the top of a library ladder, attempting to reach a book. Unfortunately, he’d overestimated his arm reach. He could either try to reach it where he was, roll the ladder while standing on it, or climb down and roll it over to the correct position.  
James decided the first option would take the least time. He extended his reach as far as he could, shifting his position on the rungs. The book was just within reach, if he could only go a little further.  
“James?” Came Damien’s voice, making James jolt. Meaning, he…lost his balance.  
The ladder went rolling away as he fell. He let out a small shriek before arms caught him. James knew he’d be looking up into Damien’s eyes. It was still a pleasant sight when he looked up.  
“I had three choices, Damien. I knew what the smart one was, and I…didn’t make it.” James said, smile working its way onto his face. It caused Damien to laugh, sending vibrations through his chest.  
“You’re very lucky I knew to expect this.” Damien replied.  
“Is it bad that I absolutely expected this to happen but my pride made me carry on?” James asked.  
“Yes, I’d say that’s bad. But it’s one of the many things I love about you.” Damien answered. James couldn’t even deny how his heart still fluttered at the words. Damien probably saw it on his face.  
“You, uh…You can let me down, now.” James said.  
“Can I, though? I’ve seen you fall standing completely still, James. I think it’s much safer for you if I just keep you here.” Damien argued, lightly.  
“Fine. But I’m getting comfortable.” James replied, petulantly.  
“I would hope so.” Damien said, soft smile on his face. He lightly kissed James’s temple. James nestled into Damien’s grasp, resting his head on Damien’s shoulder. He could hear Damien’s heartbeat, steady and sustained.  
Damien began walking around the house, heading to a destination unknown to James. He walked all the way to the living room, seating himself on the sofa, placing James on his lap. James tried not to let his blush show, but couldn’t help it.  
James was comfortable with intimacy (provided it was Damien), but sometimes it took him off guard and flustered him. He wasn’t about to break the contact, instead locking his fingers behind Damien’s neck.  
“Thanks for…catching me, back there.” James managed to say through the screaming in his mind.  
“You never have to thank me, James. If there’s any possibility of me catching you, I always will.” Damien vowed.  
James pulled himself up, slightly, to give Damien a kiss. Damien’s arms circled around James’s torso, fingers curling in his shirt. James’s fingers traveled up Damien’s neck, gripping into his hair.  
Damien always had the faint taste of chocolate on his tongue. One of his only vices, Damien often indulged in the stuff, and James would never complain.  
James broke the kiss, nose still touching Damien’s. And he couldn’t help but giggle at the contact.  
“You caught me when I fell for you, too.” James murmured.  
“You’re surprisingly cheesy, my darling.” Damien teased. “I, on the other hand, take a daily free fall for you.”  
James buried his face in Damien’s neck. “Stop stealing my job from me.” He whined, causing another resonating laugh from Damien. His laughter started in his stomach, reverberating in his ribcage. James had spent enough time curled into Damien’s chest to recognize that.  
Damien sighed, content. “Before you, I’ve never known love like this. But, God, you’re indescribable. I’m a man in love.”  
James curled up tighter, trying to be as close as he could to Damien. “You’re always going to catch me. That’s what being in love with you means.” James looked up to see Damien’s smile.  
“Just try to fall around me, it won’t work.” Damien’s teasing tone was back. James smiled, and pulled him down for another kiss.


	2. Mark's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghost of Mark laments on missed opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious I wrote this before "Damien"? Yeah probably. Enjoy, anyways!

Mark was the last of his childhood friends to meet the mysterious James Shefford. It had been Damien first, on pure accident (he’d implied more than once, as well). Then William, by introduction.  
Then Mark, at a party thrown by him. Damien and Oscar invited James, and the minute Mark saw him, he knew in his heart he had to get to know the odd author.  
Getting to know James Shefford was like pulling teeth from gums made of cement. But once Mark made up his mind, that was that. He and the others tore down James’s wall, brick by brick. But none more so than Damien.  
Seemingly effortlessly, Mark’s childhood friend tore down James’s walls. And though Mark was happy for them, whatever their relationship turned out to be, he couldn’t deny the jealousy in his heart.  
Mark didn’t know James as well as Damien did. But everything Mark could latch onto, he cherished, and fell in love with. And some days, he could almost delude himself into thinking James was feeling the same.  
While one would have to be blind, deaf, and stupid to not notice Damien’s affections, James was harder to pin down. But Mark _did_ know a few things about his friend. He could see that spark of passion ignite whenever he looked at Damien.  
In retrospect, Mark understood how many opportunities he’d had to confess to James. He’d only made excuses not to, but there had been countless times he could have said something, _anything._  
Mark had truly loved Celine, that was never a lie. He just proved to himself it was possible to love two people at the same time, with equal passion. But having one of them love him back, however long that lasted, was a great privilege.  
Of course, when Mark found Celine in bed with William, it broke his heart irreparably. He wasn’t even angry, not at first. Just hurt, that two people he loved so much could hurt him so badly.  
He ran away, found the nearest phone he could, and called James. He’d been breaking down in tears, and James was the only person he could think to call. But James didn’t pick up his phone. It’s not like he was a heavy sleeper, despite the time of night it was.  
Mark did the only thing he could comprehend, and called Damien. If anyone would know James’s whereabouts, it would be Damien.  
He could barely even get out the words once Damien picked up, sounding utterly exhausted. But he quickly perked up when he heard Mark on the other end, sobbing.  
Mark gave up on talking to James, instead seeking comfort in Damien. However, he did have to tread very carefully. Celine was Damien’s sister, after all. And Mark wasn’t about to lose his current source of warmth and comfort by disrespecting anyone involved.  
And he still loved Celine, of course he did. Love like his didn’t just _vanish_ the moment something bad happened. Mark loved unconditionally, and that was true of everyone.  
Mark hung up, and sat alone for a while. It had just begun to rain, the first showers of April. Normally, this time of year, he’d be dancing with Celine outside, acting like children. Now he just felt alone, and empty.  
When he went back to the house, it was abandoned. Celine and William had gone, likely together.  
Mark quickly found out it was not as abandoned as he thought. Something, a being, lurking in the shadows. It whispered things to him. Sympathy, mostly. He should have seen they were all sugar-coated lies. He should have ignored the demon, gone out and searched for Oscar, James, hell, even Abe. But he’d been stupid and hurt and so tired.  
He’d gone to sleep. And when he awoke, he was not himself. Someone else was steering, using his deepest, most primal urges against him.

His biggest mistake was letting his guard down, letting the being in. And as he saw his friends funnel in, he tried, oh he _tried_ to warn them.   
He didn’t blame William, Celine was her own woman. He didn’t blame Damien, he had no control over his sister’s actions. And he especially didn’t blame James, who had no idea the effect he had on Mark. His words fell on deaf ears.  
By the time he could summon up the voice to warn them, it was far too late. Things happened so quickly, and now he was stuck.  
He had to watch James get hurt more than once, had to watch Damien and Celine become twisted beyond belief, watch William kill Abe and Oscar, and slowly go insane.  
He couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.  
As James left the house, clearly a changed man, Mark tried to tell him he was sorry, tried to explain what happened.  
He would never know if James got the message. He was stuck in that same goddamn house, forever.  
And then…there was William. His moustache was pink, matching his hair, and he was near unrecognizable from the man Mark knew. But still, it was him. He was back.  
Mark didn’t have to be alone anymore, a wandering specter of empty halls that never rightfully belonged to him. He just hoped William, or rather, Wilford knew how sorry he was.  
He would never be able to apologize enough.


	3. Circus Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wiggles finds something that reminds him of a time he'd rather forget. Dark doesn't like that too much.

Wiggles rarely talked about the days he worked with the circus. Only when he was holding his sixth glass of whiskey in his hand. Sometimes a pistol in the other.  
He would mumble about knives, bears, and masks. Nothing was perfectly coherent, barely even English. A slurred mix between English, Gaelic, Italian, and some incredibly broken French.  
From what Wilford had been able to gather from Wiggles’s multiple bad nights, he had worked in the circus for around four years. It had been a French circus, often compared to the Cirque du Soleil. But it was much darker. Wilford hadn’t gotten much more than that, as Wiggles would start rambling about ‘terrible, horrible things’, and Wilford would lose him in memories.  
Tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight, they had hit the town, a night of dancing to music neither of them knew and new drinks that they’d never tasted, yet imbibed in too many of them.  
Tonight was a night where Wiggles and Wilford were stuck together, laughing and dancing and singing. Wilford treasured these nights. Wiggles was a walking stormcloud, so whenever Wilford could get him to really smile, he cherished it. Somewhere along the way, the odd clown had become…his best friend.  
Currently, they were walking home. Wiggles had been staying with Wilford and Dark and the gang for a time after his ‘walls’ were taken away from him. It seemed Wiggles had no plans to move out, and Wilford wasn’t about to complain. He liked having Wiggles around. Made life one hell of a lot more interesting.  
Wilford’s arm dropped from around Wiggles’s shoulder as he kept walking, but the clown stayed behind. He seemed transfixed on the brick wall beside them, dimly illuminated in the streetlight.  
Wilford backtracked a few steps, looking at Wiggles, then to the wall. Pasted onto the bricks was a flyer, the paper brown, as though remarkably old. But Wilford passed this wall several times a week, and this was the first he’d seen of it.  
It advertised a circus, _Le Cirque Noir_. The Black Circus. The tent on the flyer was a stark black, not even purposely aged.  
“Well, that’s…weird.” Wilford muttered, an eyebrow raising at the sight.  
“Those rotten bastards.” Wiggles said. “Those fuckin’ bastards!”  
He took out his favorite revolver from his jacket and shot the poster. Wilford startled back, staring bug-eyed between Wiggles and the gun.  
“Hey, whoa, whoa, now! I understand the urge to destroy all posters, but what’s with this one? Did it sleep with your mother?” Wilford asked, reaching for his own gun.  
“I don’t have a mother. Listen, Wil, you gotta trust me,” Wiggles turned to Wilford, then. “I got some business with these carny fucks to take care of. You oughta head on home. I’ll be back later.”  
Wilford frowned. “Hmm, let me think about it, oh wait, no.”  
Wiggles matched his expression, shocked. “The fuck do you mean, no?”  
“I’m not going home. Look, I understand the need for revenge, believe me, I do. But there’s absolutely no way I’m letting you go alone.” Wilford insisted. “You could use a little help.” He offered a slight smile, one Wiggles eventually returned.  
“Alright. Let’s go.”  
And that was how Wilford, still drunk on tequila, found himself in front of a huge black tent just outside of town. The circus hadn’t opened yet, its debut would likely be the next day. Wiggles’s knuckles were white on his gun. Wilford had never seen him so furious.  
Wiggles opened the flap of the tent and barged in, Wilford hot on his heels. Wiggles barged past everything around him, but Wilford noticed.  
People setting up, calling out Wiggles’s name, practicing their acts. Three children ran around the area, tapping Wiggles’s back as he passed. He flinched away from their touch.  
“Hey! Moritmer!” Wiggles shouted, firing off a shot. People ran away from him, a few screaming, a few still practicing their acts. Wiggles grabbed a handful of knives from a man who’d been juggling them.  
Wilford fired a warning shot to show he was behind Wiggles, eyeing anybody who tried to approach him.  
Wilford glanced up ahead to see where they were going. There seemed to be an open flap towards the back, leading to a smaller tent of the same deep black.  
Wiggles charged through, tossing a knife with terrifying accuracy. It landed in a woman’s shoulder, and she cried out, clutching at her wound.  
Wilford glanced up at Wiggles. No sly remarks, no apologies. His facial expression was cold, only anger visible in the crease of his mouth,  
Whatever happened at this circus, it really got under his skin. Wilford wanted to stop Wiggles, but knew that would be a horrible idea. Instead, he watched Wiggles’s back, shooting a fire breather that tried to get close.  
Wiggles barged into the second tent, throwing a knife at the man who stood there. The man bent backwards, knife tearing through the tent where he had just been standing. Wilford tried not to swear.  
The man looked shockingly ordinary, in a suit with pristine black hair, monocle perched on his face. But there was a sense of power Wilford couldn’t deny or explain. And Wiggles was pointing a gun at this well of power.  
“I thought I put you in the ground.” Wiggles growled.  
“Takes a lot more than you to keep me there, my dear boy.” The man, who Wilford assumed to be ‘Mortimer’, replied, devilish smile growing on his face.  
“I’m gonna skin you this time around. I’m not making any mistakes.” Wiggles butted his gun up against Mortimer’s head.  
Mortimer reached out and touched against Wiggles’s chest. Power be damned, that bastard was touching his friend. Wilford pointed his own gun at Mortimer.  
“Take a few steps back.” He warned. Mortimer simply chuckled, and pulled something out of Wiggles’s pocket. Was that…a pocket watch?  
As soon as Wiggles noticed it, his eyes flashed with anger, and he fired. Three times between the eyes before he was satisfied. And as Mortimer dropped to the ground, Wiggles snatched his pocket watch back.  
“Don’t you ever take this from me!” He shouted. His voice sounded weird. Deeper, almost? A few small cracks between words.  
Wiggles was shaking, visibly. Wilford stuck his gun in his pocket and walked over to Wiggles, wrapping his arms around him. “Hey, clowny boy. It’s all okay. It’s all gonna be okay. He can’t hurt you anymore.”  
“He’s gonna get back up. He’s gonna start the whole damn thing over again. We’re gonna keep going around in circles, again and again and again…” Wiggles trailed off, his breathing shaky and quick.  
“I’ll ask a few favors, later, to make sure the deed is truly done. For now, we need to get you out of here, you can’t go on.” Wilford insisted.  
“They need to be okay.” Wiggles mumbled.  
“Who are they?” Wilford asked. This whole thing was starting to get more and more complicated.  
“The freak show. They didn’t sign up for it, I know they didn’t.” Wiggles was making less and less sense.  
“I’ll ask after them, too. We really need to get you out of here.” Wilford persisted. Wiggles fought a bit, but eventually allowed himself to be lead away from the circus, shaking too much to properly protest.

Wilford handed Wiggles a full mug of warm tea. Maybe he’d hate it, maybe he wouldn’t. Wilford just had the sense it was the right thing to do at a time such as this.  
Wiggles had stopped shaking. That was something, at the very least. He accepted the mug without a word and took a sip. He didn’t seem to detest it.  
Wilford sat across from him, matching his silence. He wouldn’t press Wiggles, not if he wanted to stay friends with him.  
“I guess you probably want me to start spilling my guts, huh?” Wiggles said, bitterly.  
“No one is making you, my boy.” Wilford replied, gently. Wiggles fidgeted with his mug.  
“Gah, my fucking head.” Wiggles mumbled, looking down at the floor, using his free hand to rub against his forehead.  
Wilford stayed quiet. Wiggles would talk when, or if he was ready.  
“It started a couple years ago. I had nowhere else to go, didn’t have any money, and no place for my particular set of skills.” Wiggles began. Wilford sat forward, elbows on his knees, listening to what Wiggles had to say. “I had the absolutely show-stopping idea of running away with the circus. If it hadn’t been that one, I might still be with one.”  
Wiggles took a gulp of his tea before he continued. “It was a good run, of about four years. But something happened. I fucked up a trick, hit one of the other members. I was a knife thrower, see, the best one. But even the best can majorly fuck up. I was sent for some type of punishment, and while I was going there, I saw…the most horrible things.”  
Wilford tentatively reached out and grabbed Wiggles’s hand. Wiggles didn’t reject it as he often would. Instead, he gripped it tighter.  
“Mortimer was the rat bastard behind it all. Kidnapping kids from the audience, using them to be an immortal, torturing anybody in the circus who fucked up a trick or found out what he was doing. I’ll never forget the screaming…” Wiggles shook his head, voice strengthening. “Long story short, I burned the place to the ground. I shot and stabbed Mortimer a bunch of times and freed the kids. I guess it wasn’t enough.” Wiggles looked up with a bitter smile. “Nothing ever is. Not for me.”  
“Hey, hey, hey now.” Wilford interrupted, lightly tapping Wiggles’s face. “None of that. You do your best. Sometimes you simply can’t control the flow of life. In case you hadn’t noticed, the world makes no sense. You can do everything perfectly, and things don’t work out. What matters is that you’re still alive.” Wilford offered a smile, holding Wiggles’s cheek. “Alright? I’ll take no more of your self-abuse, not tonight.”  
Wiggles was silent for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. Not tonight.”  
“I’ll take it.” Wilford conceded. “I’m going to call in a few…favors, shall we say, to make sure that circus will never bother you again. I’ll be back in a few moments.”  
Wiggles nodded, again, and Wilford left the room. He felt Wiggles’s eyes track him as he left.  
Wilford took a quick survey of the manor before rushing up the stairs, seeking the perfect man for the job.  
It didn’t take him long to find Dark’s office. He wasn’t sure Dark actually slept, but he knew Dark worked, and would likely be there.  
Sure enough, when Wilford knocked, the door swung open of its own accord, further proving that Dark was right for the job. Wilford stepped into the office.  
Color was washed out of the world, except for vague hints of blue and red. The presence in the office was almost enough to push Wilford back out. But he persisted.  
Dark looked up at Wilford, unimpressed and looking very much like he wanted Wilford to leave. “Wilford. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dark stretched the last word out, just a bit, to show his distaste.  
“I have a favor to ask.” Wilford said, keeping his voice strong, his emotions at a minimum. That was how you best communicated with Dark. Everything was a business meeting.  
“And what makes you think I will grant it?” Dark asked, linking his hands, leaning forward on the desk.  
“Because it isn’t for me. It’s for Wiggles.” Wilford answered. Dark sat up straight, suddenly more alert.  
“Well, go on. Tell me what petty favor you need. I may grant it, if I’m feeling gracious enough. Or bored enough.” Dark allowed. He tried to play it off as casual, but Wilford saw right through him. He knew Dark had a peculiar soft spot for his clown friend. Even better.  
“There’s a certain circus in town that’s caused our dear Wiggles some trouble. The ringmaster, a little weasel called Mortimer, is a man who can’t die through ordinary means. Otherwise, I’d take care of it myself.” Wilford explained. His fingers were itching for his gun, to go back and finish the job. His friend deserved proper vengeance.  
“I see. And what kind of trouble has he been caused?” Dark asked, keeping his voice neutral. Wilford knew how to observe, though. The tilt to his head, the curl of his fingers, the strength of the gray presence. Dark was angry, and it was plain to see.  
“To be frank, I’m not sure. I have my guesses. Abuse, assault, possibly of the sexual variety. I haven’t forced him to answer. All I know is that I’ve never seen that clown angrier. Or more terrified.” Wilford answered, patiently.  
Dark shifted his jaw, staring Wilford dead in the eyes. “You’re lucky, Warfstache. I’m feeling generous, today. But you owe me, and I intend to make good on that favor.”  
“Anything.” Wilford promised.  
Dark stood from his desk, cracking his next and straightening his tie. He strode past Wilford and out the door.  
“And one more thing,” Wilford called. He heard Dark’s footsteps stop. “The freak show. They’re innocent. Likely slave labor. If at all possible, let them go.”  
“It would be more trouble to kill them.” Dark retorted.  
Wilford’s shoulders eased when he felt the presence Dark carried disappear. He would make good on his promise, this Wilford knew for certain.

Two hours later, Wilford was presenting a bloodied monocle to Wiggles. He found it on his bedside table, no note, no additional object, telling him all he needed to know.  
Wiggles studied the monocle, as though barely believing it. Wilford watched a look of grim satisfaction overtake his friend’s face.  
“Thank you.” Wiggles murmured. He threw the monocle to the ground, shattering the glass. “Good fucking riddance, Mortimer.”  
Wilford looked away from Wiggles, towards the doorway. Dark stood outside the room, watching them. He met Wilford’s eyes. Wilford nodded.  
Whatever favor Dark had in mind, he would willingly pay it. Anything to see Wiggles’s shoulders looser than ever before.


	4. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wiggles is feeling things. He makes the mistake of mentioning it to Wilford.

Wiggles was a clown, plain and simple. Clowns did not love, this he knew to be a fact. Wiggles was almost certain he was born without a heart, as all he typically felt was misery. But one needed a heart to feel even misery. One needed a heart to breathe, and therefore, feel things.  
Wiggles may have been feeling…odd, recently, but it certainly was not love. He could not fall in love. He didn’t have a word for it, but he was determined to find one. And his best bet was Wilford.  
Wilford knew things about feelings. How, Wiggles didn’t quite understand. He seemed to be the least stable person in the world to Wiggles. Or perhaps that was why he was the perfect person to ask? Too much going on in his brain, maybe?  
Wiggles found him backstage, straightening his bow tie. The talk show seemed to be going well, only two interviewees had been shot so far, and they’d been going for six episodes. That made the producers happy. Well, as happy as they could be. Wilford had stopped Wiggles from shooting the producers, so that was something.  
Wilford spotted Wiggles and turned to him with a big smile, as he always did. From the beginning of their friendship, Wilford had always seemed particularly fond of Wiggles. Wiggles wasn’t sure he wanted to know why.  
“There you are, Wiggly man!” Wilford greeted. Wiggles flinched. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but it made him flinch, nonetheless. “Should I try again?” Wilford asked, clearly noticing his flinch.  
“I’d say so. But that ain’t the point,” Wiggles replied, finding a chair and perching on top of it. Wilford raised a brow at his posture.  
“Is it serious talk time? We’re live in fifteen minutes, so make it snappy.” Wilford said, no real bite in his voice. He seemed more concerned than anything else. Yet another emotion. Wiggles couldn’t get his mind around the idea.  
“No, nothing like that time I dug up that pharaoh because I thought he owed me money and accidentally cursed us both. Shouldn’t take up too much time.” Wiggles answered. “I’ve been…” Wiggles tilted his head, uncomfortable. “Feeling things.”  
“Uh-oh. Are you in love with me? Because you’re just a friend to me.” Wilford asked, suspicion in his voice.  
“How many times do I gotta tell ya? Clowns cannot feel love.” Wiggles shot back, rocking slightly on his heels.  
“What about Pep Pep?” Wilford countered.  
“We do not talk about Pep Pep. Would ya let me finish, ya mustached fuck?” Wiggles was losing patience, but he didn’t mean the insult, and they both knew that.  
“Alright, alright. No need to attack me just because I can grow a glorious mustache and you can’t.” Wilford pulled up a chair as he spoke and sat across from Wiggles, resting forward on his knees. “What kinds of things have you been feeling?” He questioned, taking it seriously, despite the slight smile still on his face. Wiggles had never seen him without one, so he didn’t take it personally.  
“It’s like…” Wiggles tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth, contemplating how to best put it into words. “There’s this…person, see? They’re not exactly ordinary, but they wouldn’t stand out if they didn’t want to.” Wiggles paused, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. For the first time in a while, it was not a fish bone.  
“Well, go on.” Wilford prompted.  
“I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there. So this person isn’t exactly everyone’s definition of special. I mean, they are, technically, but…anyways! They’re real important to me. ‘Can’t stop thinkin’ about them’ typa important. I wanna spend loads and loads of time with ‘em and it don’t feel right when I’m not. Like, now.” Wiggles rambled, hand gestures getting broader and broader. “I was just wonderin’ if there was a word for it. Why I feel so bad when I’m not with ‘em. And why I feel bad when I am with ‘em but in a…different sorta way.” Wiggles tried to explain.  
Wilford smiled, knowingly. There was a soft hint of melancholy in his eyes as he listened. It took a moment for him to reply.  
“My dear boy, that’s called pining. You’re in love with this person.” Wilford said. This sat badly.  
“What? No! I am not!” Wiggles protested, clambering off his chair. His face felt hot. It often did under pressure. Nothing abnormal, nothing at all.  
“You are. That’s the word for it. You feel bad without this person because you want to be with them, and you feel bad when you’re around this person because it isn’t the way you want to be with them. That’s called love. And from the looks of it, you got it bad.” Wilford explained, patiently.  
“That’s crazy! I am not ‘in love’ with Dark!” Wiggles shouted, incredulous at Wilford’s judgement.  
Everything stopped. Even the audience outside seemed to have gone quiet, although they certainly didn’t hear him. Wilford’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and Wiggles realized what he’d done.  
“Oh fuck.” He muttered, dread settling in. This was not going to be good.  
“You’re in love with _Dark_! Oh, that is just too goddamn precious!” Wilford practically squealed, standing up, excitedly. “Does he feel the same about you? I’ll bet he does. What should your couple name be? Everybody has one!”  
“We are not a couple and we never will be!” Wiggles protested.  
“Oh, don’t say that, lover boy. Wark? Diggles? What do you think?” Wilford asked, but put his hand against Wiggles’s mouth. “Don’t answer that. I’ll ask the people out there.” Wilford gestured towards the entrance to the stage. “Speaking of which, our time for chit-chat is up! Work those noodle legs of yours and go greet the people!” Wilford urged, pushing Wiggles forward.  
Wiggles paused to adjust his jacket before striding out on stage, pushing Wilford’s comments to the back of his mind.  
He was not in love with Dark. Clowns did not love. That was the only fact he was always certain of.  
But why couldn’t he stop thinking about Dark?

Damien was in control.  
This used to be uncommon, given his instability while in control of their body. But he was stabilizing, however slowly. And this was in no small part due to the arrival of Wiggles.  
All souls within their shared body recognized him. How could they not? It was James Shefford, alive and well. But none more so than Damien.  
He had begun trying to break out of Celine’s and their companion’s hold immediately upon seeing him. He had to talk to James, he _had to_.  
Of course, Wiggles was startled by this, but didn’t seem as bothered as James would have been. And that was when Damien truly realized this wasn’t the proper James he knew so well. The head injuries he’d sustained had done a number on him.  
Instead of destabilizing him as Celine thought it might, it brought him focus. Knowing that the cause of all of James’s misery, the cause of Wiggles the Clown, was Mark only renewed his fervor for vengeance.  
Their hold over their body became evenly split from then on. And Damien relished any chance to use his body to its full extent.  
Damien used a cloth to wipe the blood off his hands before tossing it aside, throwing his tie from around his neck to the floor.  
The place they currently resided in was a penthouse in Los Angeles. There was no need to disclose how, exactly, they acquired the penthouse.  
It was a home away from home, away from the other, impossibly maddening residents of the manor in which they normally resided. A place where they could just…be.  
Damien stepped over to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He checked his watch as he did so, noticing it was time for Wiggles and Wilford’s show.  
He would never admit it to them, but he tried to watch it whenever he could, if only to catch whatever desperate glance he could at James. Even after all these years, he was still hopelessly…pining. One more touch, one more word of affection, one more moment where James knew who he was, and loved him for it.  
Damien flipped on the large TV at the back of the room and sat on the couch. He could hear Celine mocking him, light-heartedly, but he ignored her.  
Wilford and Wiggles were sitting at the opposite ends of their obnoxiously pink couch, as per usual. It appeared as though Damien missed the first interview, as Wiggles and Wilford were having their friendly banter, the real appeal of the show.  
Wiggles seemed a bit distant, preoccupied. The audience was laughing just as uproariously as his jokes, and Wilford hadn’t shown any notice towards it. But Damien noticed. He would always notice.  
Suddenly, Wilford spoke up, in the middle of Wiggles’s sentence, ranting about cinnamon toothpaste.  
“Darklown!” He exclaimed, startling Wiggles. Was that…genuine?  
“No, no, no, Wilf, I told you to drop it!” Wiggles argued. He seemed genuinely upset. What were they talking about? Had Damien missed something important from the first interview?  
“Oh, how can I? It’s just too precious!” Wilford replied.  
“It is not, because there’s nothing to _be_ precious.” Wiggles persisted. Wilford frowned at him, then turned to the audience, regaining his smile.  
“Everybody, listen up!” He called. Damien had to admit, he stopped himself in the middle of his sip to listen.  
“He’s about to lie to all of you, I hope you know!” Was Wiggles’s final protest before he sat back, folding his arms. Wilford cast a glance back at Wiggles.  
“Everybody’s favorite clown has the emotional intelligence of a broken refrigerator,” Wilford said. “Cuz, ya see, kids, backstage he was asking me about feelings. Our sad little clown is in loooooove!”  
The audience made a resounding sound of ‘ooh’ but Damien couldn’t share in their enthusiasm. He felt hollow inside. Even if that wasn’t precisely James, it still…was James. And James, or Wiggles, didn’t love him. At least not anymore.  
“It is _not_ love. Clowns do not love.” Wiggles insisted, petulant tone to his voice.  
“Oh, you do, you lil scamp.” Wilford reached over and playfully knocked Wiggles’s jaw. Wiggles flashed him his middle finger. “But anyways! I was trying to figure out what I could call them once they finally get to the lovey-dovey stage, and I think I found it! How does ‘Darklown’ sound to all of you?”  
There was a noise of approval from the audience. Damien’s heart was sinking further and further by the second.  
He should have expected this. Wiggles didn’t remember him, it would only make sense he would fall in love again. Damien wanted nothing more than his happiness. He just hadn’t anticipated that happiness would hurt so much.  
“What is that even combining, huh? It’s a stupid couple name!” Wiggles kept arguing.  
“It is not!” Wilford defended. “It’s a combination of your names! That’s how most couple names are formed, haven’t you ever been on the ol’ interwebs?”  
“No, and I do not intend to.” Wiggles replied. Despite himself, Damien smiled at that. “What part of my name did you use, exactly?”  
“Clown, obviously!” Wilford said.  
“Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa. You think my full, actual name, legally, is Wiggles the Clown?” Wiggles persisted. He seemed eager to change the subject, away from the person he was supposedly in love with. Damien was almost glad for it.  
“Well, isn’t it? Or do we have to change our names on the show to Wilford Warfstache and Whoever-the-Frick-You-Are?” Wilford earned himself a laugh for that.  
“My name is James, if you gotta know.” Wiggles said, then paused, shocked at himself. “Where the fuck did that come from?”  
Damien’s heart stopped. _No._ He couldn’t suddenly remember, not when his happiness was within sight. As much as Damien wanted him back, he could never truly have him again. James deserved to be happy elsewhere.  
“So what does that name change it to? Since clearly you had a problem with Darklown.” Wilford said, unfazed. Unaware that Damien’s entire world had flipped on its head.  
“I have a problem with you.” Wiggles (James?) muttered. “I am not in love with Dark, how many times do I gotta tell you?!” He finally exploded.  
Wilford played at surprised, and Wiggles sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands.  
“I fucking did it again.” He muttered, barely audible over the audience’s noises.  
“Did you hear that, folks? We got a name!” Wilford rejoiced.  
Damien shut the TV off, unable to hear any more. He couldn’t believe it. Not only did Wiggles recall his old name, he also mentioned Dark. By name.  
It didn’t matter if Wiggles couldn’t remember the whole ordeal by the next morning, if he couldn’t even remember who he had affections for.  
Damien would. He would remember for as long as he lived. And with his companion, that would likely mean…forever.


	5. Protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Wiggles gets hurt, Dark allows himself to be a bit upset about it. (TW: Graphic violence)

It was his blood. It stained his bared stomach, only just beginning to clot.  
Wiggles hissed through gritted teeth as Wilford applied rubbing alcohol to the wound, clenching his fist. “ _Fuck_ , that hurts.”  
“Oh, hush, it’ll hurt worse if I don’t.” Wilford tutted, gently.  
Damien watched from afar, unnoticed by both Wiggles and Wilford. It took a conscious effort, but not incredibly difficult, as far along as he was.  
He could hear Celine screaming from the backseat, telling him not to follow through with his plan. He readily ignored her. _James’s blood had been spilt_. That was something he simply couldn’t allow.  
Damien turned on his heel and set off down the hallway, straightening his tie as he went. He would even pull his cane out of hiding. Drastic measures had to be taken, after all.  
Damien conjured up his cane, familiar weight settling in his hands. He smiled, calluses perfectly aligning with the wood.  
He had an errand to run.

A whelp. A pathetic, squirming mouse barely worth the dirt on Damien’s shoe. And yet he’d dared to spill blood, and that made him worth the effort.  
He sat in a rundown apartment, typing away at his laptop. He seemed to be hacking, if Damien was guessing. He could do that without a keyboard.  
The whelp hadn’t even noticed someone in his apartment. Pathetic, really. How he’d managed to wound Wiggles to such a degree must have been miracle.  
Damien let his presence slip through. The sudden pressure in the room made the mirror next to him shatter, drawing the whelp’s attention. Damien smiled, predatorily, letting his companion have a small bit of control.  
“You should keep your door locked. It wouldn’t have stopped me, but it’s ultimately wise. So no one can interrupt.” Damien said, allowing his voice to resonate. Damien flicked his finger, locking the door from afar. “That’s better.”  
“Who the fuck are you?!” The whelp shouted, grabbing a gun from his desk with a shaky hand. Damien rolled his eyes, propping himself on his cane.  
“No matter how much you want it, that will never work.” Damien flicked his eyes to the gun. “Go ahead and fire. It will only waste my time and your bullets.”  
“How the fuck did you get in here?!” The whelp continued screaming. An uncivilized ape. He needed to learn some manners. Maybe it would do him some good in the afterlife.  
“You’re asking the wrong questions. You’re asking the what, the where, the how. You’re neglecting the most important question. _Why._ ” Damien said. He adjusted his cane and flipped it in the air, once. With only a quarter of his force, he slammed the cane into the wall. It took little to no effort, yet it scared the whelp. Pathetic. “Why do you think I’m here, maggot?” He hissed the last words through clenched teeth, still in a smile.  
“Is this about the money thing? I told your boss, I was gettin’ there!” The whelp said. Damien had to laugh.  
“I don’t care about something so trivial, and I have no _boss_. I am the superior. Don’t make that mistake.” Damien corrected. “I want you to think. Use the tiny muscle in your head that somehow masquerades itself as a brain, and think about what you did today.”  
The whelp took a long moment to think before his face fell. “Is this about that creepy clown fucker? He heard something he wasn’t supposed to. Nothing personal, just business.”  
Damien gripped the head of his cane, chuckling. “I understand. Unfortunately for you, your business is rather personal to me. You see, I’m quite… _protective_ of the one whose blood you chose to spill. And I’m not in the mood for forgiveness.”  
Damien took a slow step towards the whelp. Of course, he was unsurprised when two shots were fired, both hitting him in the chest. He barely even felt it.  
Another shot fired, but it didn’t even break his stride this time. Instead, he grabbed the whelp’s throat and threw him into the wall. He barely made cracks.  
Before the whelp could pick himself up, Damien brought the metal head of his cane to the whelp’s jaw. He heard a crack, and couldn’t help the smile entering his face. It was all so satisfying.  
The whelp was on the verge of tears, wishing for the mercy of unconsciousness. Damien would not give it so easily.  
He walked over and crouched, grabbing the whelp’s hair and yanking his face upwards, forcing them to lock eyes.  
The whelp was covered in blood, already. Damien couldn’t wait to see how soaked he could become. His eyes were scared, wide and searching.  
“I’m going to teach you a lesson that will follow you to your deathbed.” Damien said, quietly.  
“Please don’t kill me,” The whelp pleaded, voice shaking.  
“No promises,” Damien brought his cane to the whelp’s stomach, causing him to splutter and cough. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Wiggles clutched his side as he stood outside Dark’s office door. His wound was aching, but he couldn’t deny the overwhelming urge to see Dark. Even he couldn’t quite understand this urge.  
Wiggles knocked on the door. “Hey, Dark. You got a sec?” He called.  
The door opened of its own accord, and Wiggles stepped inside.  
Dark’s aura was completely restrained as he perched on the edge of his pristine desk. His desk had always been an oddity to Wiggles. Nothing was on it, except for maybe one paper, and a framed picture he always kept face down.  
Dark was in a suit he previously hadn’t been in, jacket hung over the desk chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He was rubbing a towel over a beautiful black cane that looked almost familiar to Wiggles.  
“Wiggles. What do you need?” Dark asked, voice softer than Wiggles normally heard, still with a harsh edge to it.  
“I just…wanted to see you, I think. Believe me, I don’t know why, I just know that I did. Uh, sorry, I’ll-I’ll go.” Wiggles said, but hesitated. “You have blood on your face. Did something happen?”  
Dark wiped away the blood on his cheekbone, examining it on his thumb. “Nothing to worry about. Taking care of some…business.” Dark answered. He wiped his thumb on the towel he was using to polish his cane.  
“Oh. Okay. Good. Bye.” Wiggles tried to rush out of the room as quickly as he could, but leaned against the doorframe. “Whoooo boy.” He breathed.  
Dark was at his side moments later, bracing his shoulder. His touch was almost familiar, and Wiggles didn’t want to shake it off.  
“Hey now, that’s not necessary.” Wiggles insisted. Dark didn’t comment, meeting Wiggles’s eyes.  
“Be careful not to go to the kitchen tonight. Bim is having a snack, and he’s cranky when he eats.” Dark said. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”  
“Why not?” Wiggles pressed.  
Dark leaned forward. Wiggles knew what was coming, and met him in the middle. And oh, some distant part of Wiggles remembered that touch. How, he didn’t know. He just knew that taste, knew those lips.  
Dark pulled away, glancing down at Wiggles’s injury. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”  
“No, no, Damien, it’s…it’s fine.” Wiggles stopped, confused. “I should go. Dark.” He emphasized.  
Wiggles walked away as quickly as he could. Behind him, he heard the sound of the door closing, and then the smashing of glass. He ignored it.  
He had a lot to think about.


	6. Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a moment of clarity, Wiggles remembers who he is, and he has some feelings.

Wiggles bounced the pocket watch up and down in his hand. The cold metal hurt, smacking down rhythmically onto his hand, but he didn’t care. In an odd way, the gesture was soothing.  
The watch was something he didn’t fully remember how he got. He simply woke up one day with it in his pockets, and what he was certain were fake hands.  
The watch was a bit peculiar. Sometimes, it wouldn’t tell him the time at all. It would say it was a completely different time, then snap to being right again.  
It also had the picture of a mook who looked a lot like Wiggles, himself. Different skin and hair, but the same face. Same eyes. It was kinda freaky to look at. But Wiggles didn’t feel like he could remove it. It didn’t feel right to mess with it.  
Wiggles knew it wasn’t his, in all senses of the word. He wasn’t sure if anybody was looking for it. It was his for the time being, and had been for a while. He couldn’t put an exact number on how long, though.  
Wiggles tossed the watch back up. Time seemed to slow down. Rain fell at a snail’s crawl around the awning Wiggles was taking shelter in. He only had a moment to wonder what that was about before he heard a voice in his head, one he’d…heard before, somewhere.  
 _“I promise.”_  
The voice said, sincerity ringing around Wiggles’s head. Promises never ended well, in his experience.  
The promise sounded so…meaningful. Where had he heard it before? And what had it been about?  
The watch landed in Wiggles’s open, waiting palm. But he didn’t feel the impact. If his eyes hadn’t been aimed at it, he wouldn’t have realized it returned at all. The promise was still ringing around in his head.  
The voice was familiar. But for the life of him, Wiggles couldn’t figure out who said it, or why they were saying it.  
He wanted the voice back, saying fresh words. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he cared so much, but he knew he did. He craved more.  
Wiggles through the watch up in the air again, and sure enough, the voice returned.  
 _“What did I promise you? I’ll be okay. We will make it through this, both of us.”_  
The watch landed. Wiggles almost dropped it again as pieces of the puzzle clicked together. Whoever it was, he knew they’d broken their promise. His heart, with it.  
Again, the flying watch. Again, the voice.  
 _“I won’t break that promise to you, James Shefford.”_  
Wiggles knew, he knew he was James Shefford. He knew, but he didn’t at the same time. Thinking that made his head hurt worse than normal.  
And suddenly, he knew who to go to.  
Wiggles marched back to his temporary home, up the stairs and through the halls. He’d been here before. Something bad had taken place, here. But at the moment, he didn’t care.  
He barged into Dark’s office without knocking, knowing he’d be in there. Judging by demeanor, it was the exact person he wanted to see. Damien, who looked up, slightly shocked at his sudden entrance.  
“You wanna know why I say I don’t have a heart? Because you fuckin’ _broke_ it. You shattered it into tiny little pieces and I don’t even wanna put it back together again. And the worst fuckin’ part is that I’m not even really mad at you! It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t mine, either. It was…you know what, I don’t even fucking care what the hell it was. My head hurts and I’m so fuckin’ sad all the time and I’m always so…empty.” Wiggles was losing steam as he went. “Dammit, Dame, I miss ya.” He looked at his feet, courage fully dried up.  
“Wiggles,” Damien called out.  
“Don’t call me that.” James snapped, still using a voice he knew was not his own. Everything hurt, mentally and physically, and he just wanted it to stop.  
Damien placed a tentative hand on James’s shoulder, and James didn’t shrug it off. He missed the touch so much.  
“I’m sorry.” Damien said. He sounded just as heartbroken as James felt.  
“I’m sorry, too.” James looked into Damien’s eyes with a rueful smile. “I’m always gonna have your fuckin’ pocket watch.”  
“James-” Damien began, but James cut him off.  
“No. Don’t. Please, I-I can’t hear you say anything else. It hurts too goddamn much, and I’m guessing it hurts you too. We’re…we’re never gonna be like before ever again, and I can’t deal with it. Sorry, Damien. I gotta go.”  
James strode out of the room, not letting tears fall from his eyes. He would cry in private. Private used to be Damien’s arms.  
But now it was just an empty room that belonged to a version of himself he didn’t even recognize.


	7. Panic Attacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Wiggles has a panic attack, it throws everything off kilter. (TW: Graphic depiction of panic attacks.)

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._  
He did everything wrong, he was wrong, he was twisted, a monster, he didn’t belong, he didn’t, he didn’t, he _didn’t._  
No air, no air, no air, no air, he needed to breathe, he needed to stop. His heart pounded in his ears. His fingers were shaking and twitching.  
He had to face facts. His father left him because he was a useless piece of shit. He could never do anything right. And his mother was spared another fucking second with him.  
His hair felt like sandpaper, but he couldn’t stop gripping it. His knees dug into his chest but he couldn’t find the strength to relax them. His own breathing was too loud, too loud.  
Who was he? What was his name? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember. Did he? Didn’t he? He couldn’t pin down anything.  
A voice cut through the chaos like a knife. “May I touch you?”  
Soft. Deep. Warm. Familiar. _Damien._ Was it Damien? Who was Damien? It was Damien.  
All he could do was nod his head, an action that hurt his neck due to shaking.  
Warm arms wrapped around him, steadying him. He clung to the arms, gripping perhaps too tightly. The owner of the arms didn’t seem to mind.  
“Can you tell me what’s happening?” The arms asked. Damien? Dark? The lines were blurred, he didn’t know what to believe.  
“I-I’m a monster, a failure, I don’t deserve anything, I-I don’t…” He ran out of breath, resorting to hyperventilating.  
“Breathe in.” The voice commanded, leaving no room for argument. He forced himself to take a long breath in. A few seconds passed, and then: “Breathe out.” He did as instructed.  
The voice instructed he do this a few more times, and his breathing evened out. His head was still fuzzy, but it didn’t feel too much like a barrage anymore.  
He relaxed his legs, letting his lungs take in even more air. He eased his grip on the arms surrounding his body.  
The arms pulled away, just slightly. Hands curved around his face, forcing him to meet the eyes of the owner.  
“Do you know who I am?” The owner asked.  
“Damien.” He answered, not even really sure what meaning he attached to the word. Damien nodded, slight wistfulness in his eyes.  
“Okay. Do you know who _you_ are?” Damien asked. He frowned, thinking.  
“No. I think I do, but…it’s all fuzzy and weird.” He replied, shaking his head.  
“In a way, you have two names, but you don’t answer to both. Are you Wiggles, or are you James?” Damien gently questioned.  
He thought about it for a long moment. “James. I’m James.” He finally settled on. Somehow, it felt right.  
“Can you tell me where you are, James?” Damien continued. James looked away from Damien, observing his surroundings.  
“A backstage?” James wondered. “I’ve been here…A lot. I practically live back here.” James recalled. “My…my head hurts.” He managed.  
“Yes, it’ll do that. James, do you trust me?” Damien asked. James looked over to meet his eyes again.  
“I do.” He answered, readily. Damien smiled, slightly.  
“I’m sorry.” Damien pressed his finger to James’s head. The world went black, and James fell forward.

Damien stayed crouched on the floor, holding James in his arms. His head rested against Damien’s chest, curled up into a ball. He bent down and kissed James’s curls, something he dearly missed.  
James- _Wiggles_ -had had a few panic attacks since he became Wiggles. Not very many, but they often jumbled his memory. Apparently, it had happened around Wilford, in real time. Damien only found him in the midst of it.  
Damien wanted to stay there forever, cradling James in his arms. But Damien had to remind himself of the situation.  
Gently, he picked James up, careful not to move his head. He found James’s dressing room. It was small, just enough room for a small vanity with busted light bulbs around a dirty mirror and a tiny couch.  
Damien laid James on the couch before taking a look at the mirror. The mirror didn’t seem to be used for actual examination. Photos were pinned to the mirror with magnets. Mostly of Wiggles and Wilford, a few of Bim with Wiggles, and two with the annoying little glitch.  
The one that really caught Damien’s eye was one of himself. He had been arguing with Wilford. And Wiggles, presumably, had caught the exact moment Wilford slung his arm around Damien’s shoulder.  
Damien touched the photo, gently. Sentimentality was something Wiggles kept from James, it seemed.  
Casting one last look at James, Damien left the room. He’d have to tell Wilford to keep an eye on him, in case another attack happened.  
No matter what befell Damien, if he was still breathing, he’d always be there for James in a heartbeat.


	8. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien reflects on what he misses most about his partnership with James.

Damien missed so much of James. Everything, in fact. The talks, the dates, the sex, the companionship. But what he currently ached for the most was the dancing.  
Holding James in his arms, swaying to a gramophone. Sometimes to something he would make up on the spot. James always liked those.  
Their first dance together, Damien remembered with fondness. What he _could_ remember of it, that was.  
It had been back at university, before the days of James’s sobriety. They’d gotten drunk together at a party, staying away from the party animals of the group, holed up together at the window seat. They shared a bottle of vodka, not even bothering to use glasses. Damien could barely get his drinks down, the indirect touching of their lips making his stomach flutter.  
The song changed, then. And in his drunken bravery, James got to his feet, abandoning the bottle in favor of Damien’s hand. Given his already massive affections for James, Damien didn’t turn him down.  
While everyone else danced accordingly to the upbeat music, James pulled Damien into a slow dance. Damien didn’t even try to resist temptation, and rested his head on James’s shoulder.  
No one noticed their small dance. If they did, they didn’t comment.  
James had bent down to kiss him, then. He missed, going just to the right of his lips. But the simple touch was enough to send Damien into a short-circuit.  
After the party died down, Damien took James back to his dorm. James was mumbling a pact of sobriety, but once in bed, he said, in the most adorable of voices:  
“Let’s dance again.”  
Then promptly fell asleep.  
They had danced many times after that first encounter. In celebration after graduation. Almost jokingly to “christen” James’s new apartment. Several more times before they even confessed their feelings. Double the amount after.  
Damien missed contact with James. In his wildest fantasies, he was himself, again. He wore a tuxedo finer than anything he’d ever owned, and James matched. Damien would take his hand, and lead him in a waltz. The setting changed from a grandiose ballroom to their living room to everything in between, but the dance was the same. They would hold each other’s eyes, except for when they made each other laugh, or paused for a quick peck.  
It was all Damien really wanted. Damien would never get it again.  
Drawing Damien out of his morose thoughts was a knock at his office door. Sensing there was no threat on the other side, he allowed the door to open, revealing Wiggles. He looked nervous, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.  
“Wiggles. What can I do for you?” Damien greeted, curtly, restraining his aura so as not to push him away.  
“It’s…kinda embarrassing.” Wiggles began. “See, Wilf, he wanted to bring on this new segment to the show. Ballroom dancing, but with guns. It sounded fun so I agreed but I forgot that I…don’t know shit about dancing.”  
“I see. And what do you believe I can do about this conundrum?” Damien replied, ignoring the strengthening ache in his chest.  
“I dunno, you seem like the typa guy who knows how to dance. And I kinda thought…I dunno.” Wiggles trailed off. “This…was a bad idea. Sorry to waste your time, I’ll go.”  
“Wiggles,” Damien called out, making Wiggles stop. “Make it worth my while."  
Wiggles seemed taken aback at the words, as though he hadn’t expected such a thing to come from Damien’s mouth. In all likelihood, he hadn’t.  
“W-Well, I don’t got any money. I can give you everything in my pockets, which is…” Wiggles paused, feeling around in his jacket pockets. “A fishbone, a piece of folded duct tape, and…a bag of apple slices. I could owe you a favor, but I’m not sure what I could do that you couldn’t do for yourself.”  
Damien considered for a moment.  
“Answer three questions with complete honesty, and be willing to pay me a favor. Then I will fulfill your request.” Damien demanded.  
“R-Really, that, that, that, that’s it?” Wiggles stuttered. “Agreed, easy! Whaddya need me to answer?”  
Damien stood up, approaching Wiggles. Deciding to lead, he directed Wiggles’s position into one of a waltz. With a snap of his fingers, music began to play. Wiggles, though shocked, played along.  
“Question one,” Damien began, guiding Wiggles without words. “Why did you really ask for my help?”  
Wiggles hesitated.  
“I feel like I can trust you. I dunno why, you probably can’t stand the sight of me. But I just feel like I can come to you with anything. That what you wanted to hear?” Wiggles snapped the last part.  
“It’s a truthful answer to my question.” Damien replied, steadfastly ignoring the fluttering of his heart. It was pathetic, he reminded himself. They’d never be together again. “Question two,” He continued. “What is your name?” Damien spun Wiggles, nearly making Wiggles trip.  
“M-My name?” Wiggles repeated, looking confusedly into Damien’s eyes. They held a different weight than Damien was used to, but oh, those eyes.  
Wiggles frowned, silent for a long moment. His eyes were squinted, as though he was in pain. If Damien had become a creature of healing, he would help. But only destruction rampaged through his blood.  
Wiggles closed his eyes, demeanor subtly changing. But Damien noticed. He paid attention. He watched as his posture changed to something slightly more familiar.  
“My name is…James.” He finally said. His voice sounded like it belonged to him, again.  
Wiggles - _James_ \- opened his eyes, meeting Damien’s. “Damien,” He murmured. Damien tightened his grip on James’s waist. It was him. After all this time, it wasn’t just a brief glimpse, it was _James._  
“James,” Damien greeted, allowing himself to smile. It wouldn’t last. But he could allow himself just this one moment of happiness. After so long, he deserved just a piece.  
“Damien, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t…I couldn’t stop what happened. I couldn’t save you, or even myself.” James said, looking at his shoes. “I’m sorry I put you through so much pain every day.”  
Damien didn’t stop their dance, only moved his hand to force James to look at him.  
“You’re worth it. You’re worth everything.” Damien confessed. “I’ve missed you.” James leant forward, softly kissing him. God, Damien had missed that.  
James pulled back, solemn smile just gracing the corners of his mouth. “You still taste like chocolate.”  
Damien huffed a laugh, resting his head against James’s chest.  
“I could never give it up.” Damien replied. “How are you here?”  
“I’m not entirely sure, myself. I…I’ve always been me, but who I am is debatable, I think.” James answered. “I…I don’t know. My head is in so much pain, and everything’s so fuzzy, I…” James shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for you.”  
“That’s alright, hey,” Damien met James’s eyes once more. “It’s alright. None of us have all the answers. I’m just happy you’re here, however long you are here.”  
“I miss you so much. Even if I don’t remember you, I still… _know_ you. I’m missing a part of my soul and some days I can’t even describe what I’m missing.” James said. “And the worst part of it is when I know. When I know, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.” James’s voice was increasing in volume, becoming more and more intense.  
“I know, darling, I know.” Damien murmured. “I wish we had all the time in the world, James. I could finally tell you everything I’ve thought, after all this time apart.”  
“For now, can we just…dance? Like old times?” James asked, pleading in his eyes. What else could Damien do?  
He lead them back into a waltz. However long it would last. And judging by the ever growing pain on James’s face, it wouldn’t be much longer.


	9. Nicotine Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James misses life before his demonic companion. (Smoking TW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a non-canon compliant one-shot about if James had taken on the demon instead of Damien and Celine. Enjoy!

James never used to smoke. But some days, it was the only way to deal with the demon. Give it a taste of hellfire and it would be sated. He never liked the taste. But anything to keep him from murderous tendencies.  
James stood on his balcony overlooking the city. Los Angeles was bustling, even at night. He couldn’t say he was surprised. He was almost charmed.  
He grabbed the carton of cigarettes out of his jacket and pulled one out, sticking it between his teeth.  
As he pulled out the lighter Mark had given him at university all those years ago, he had to wonder what happened to him. Of course, he knew exactly what events had transpired, but some days he wondered why it happened. He wouldn’t trade the outcome for anything, unless, perhaps, it was to banish the demon forever. But that possibility was long gone.  
In an odd way, his demonic other half gave him much needed perspective. Why should he have to suffer through life? With his abilities, he could help himself, and others. Maybe he would never again be the good guy, but people often forgot you could do good as the bad guy.  
James flicked the lighter three times before it worked. He brought the flame to the tip of his cigarette. It didn’t take long to light. He pocketed the lighter once more and took a long drag.  
God, he hated having smoke in his lungs. Reminded him too much of fire. But ultimately, it made things easier, and James was grateful for that. Hellfire tasted like nicotine, apparently. James almost laughed at the thought.  
It could’ve been Damien. It could have easily been Damien, or Celine. Possibly even both, stuffed into a single body with a demon. James was just glad he was able to carry the burden alone, even twist it to his advantage. Even if it made him unrecognizable from his past self.  
Another puff. The cigarette rested comfortably between long, scarred fingers. They had never healed properly from the thorns outside Mark’s manor. He could easily make them disappear, if he wanted. But every time he looked at them, he remembered Damien, fretting over fresh wounds, love and concern in his eyes. It was enough to keep the scars in place.  
The moon was a crescent, that night. City lights tried to outshine the stars, but James could just see them, shining through the darkness. He wondered if they could think, could feel. He wondered if they judged him.  
Mostly, he wondered if Damien was watching the same sky. If he looked up at the same stars and thought fondly of James. Or if he was asleep, alone in a far too big bed, in an age where he didn’t have to be.  
James had hoped Damien could move on. He checked in on Damien every once in a while, just to see how he was doing. And in true Damien fashion, he had done everything but move on. Buried himself in demonic lore to the point he could become a demonic scholar and never go hungry again.  
It broke whatever shreds remained of James’s heart. Whatever he had left belonged to Damien, forever and always. And to see the one he loved in so much pain…  
James took another drag.  
He could live a life of unimaginable luxury. He did, to some extent. But every last bit of it felt hollow, fake. Like James was trying to prove a point to someone who never argued with him in the first place.  
His cigarette was getting shorter with every puff. Maybe he’d start another.  
James kept up his sobriety. It was a vow he’d made to Damien, all those years ago. Even with a demonic companion, he didn’t want to break that vow. But _Lord_ , did he miss it some days. He wanted a whiskey burn down his throat to drown out the scream constantly bubbling in his chest. Whether it was a scream of frustration, anger, sorrow, or pain, he no longer knew. He no longer cared.  
The demon made temptation that much harder to resist. The urge to pretend to be the man Damien loved. The urge to indulge in alcohol. Even though James was never interested in it, the demon constantly asked him to have sex. That was the easiest demand to ignore.  
James put out the cigarette on the ashtray beside him. It needed to be emptied, soon. There’d been a lot of bad nights.  
He walked back inside and sat at his large desk, facing the typewriter before him. He could never quit writing, no matter how much the demonic side of him wanted to. It kept him anchored in a world he no longer had a proper place in.  
The familiar clicking of the keys was a comfort, a distraction from the taste of nicotine on his tongue. He could put himself in the shoes of the main character, a relic of who he used to be. Have the main character fall in love with a thinly veiled copy of Damien. This would be the only world they got a happily ever after. James was convinced, now, that those only existed in fiction. And even if they did exist in the real world, he and Damien never stood a chance.  
He had only gotten four paragraphs in before there was a hesitant knock at his door. With a frown, James stood from his desk and walked to the door. He didn’t care who was on the other side. They posed no threat to him.  
On the other side was the last person he expected to see. Damien, holding a journal stuffed with artificial pages in one hand, his cane in the other. He looked exhausted, misery heavy in his eyes. But they lit up upon seeing James. James heard the fragments of his heart shatter.  
“Damien. I thought I told you to stay away from me. I’m no good for you.” James said, letting weariness slip into his voice.  
“I’ve been thinking the wrong things, James. And I intend to stop.” Damien said. “Please hear me out. If…if what I say isn’t satisfactory, I can leave.” Damien pleaded. James could never say no to Damien. He stepped aside to allow Damien inside.  
Damien stood in front of James’s desk, determined look in his eyes. “I’ve been under the assumption that you aren’t you. That the James I knew is buried under layers of demon. And to some extent, I still believe that you retain aspects of the James I knew. You’ve changed. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s just something to adjust to. So please, James. Allow me to get to know you as you are. Give me a chance to fall in love with you as you are, not just the memory of how you were.” Damien looked desperate, his voice passionate and hopeful.  
“Damien, I don’t know…” James said.  
“I can prove to you that I’m serious.” Damien added. He held up his stuffed journal. “This journal contains every last bit of demon information I’ve learned. How they work, where they come from, how to exorcise them.” Damien strode over to James’s roaring fireplace and tossed the journal in. James’s jaw dropped, just slightly. “There. I don’t want to change you, James, no matter who you are. I want to change the way I think about you. I want to relearn you. Your habits, what you like, the feel of you.”  
Hesitantly, Damien stepped towards James. James met him halfway, grabbing him by the lapels for a kiss. Giving in to temptation never felt so good. Maybe it was stupid, maybe Damien was just fooling himself. But in that moment, James didn’t care.  
He washed away the taste of nicotine with Damien’s mouth.


End file.
